


Pull Together Men

by earlybloomingparentheses



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Asthma attack, Brooklyn, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Relationship Development, WWII masculinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 03:05:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlybloomingparentheses/pseuds/earlybloomingparentheses
Summary: “True physical fitness means freedom from disease and from defects—a state which may be reached through willpower, training, and self-discipline. Those who complain that they are weak, that they are incapable of acts of strength, are sick, but not in the body: they are psychologically deficient, lacking in the spirit and courage that in the true American man can overcome all.Steve reads an article condemning American men who are unfit to enlist. Bucky gets angry about it.





	Pull Together Men

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from a WWII U.S. Navy recruitment poster.

It’s been a long day at work, and Bucky’s ready for some fun, maybe a night on the town, with Steve along if he can convince his friend to give the gals at the dance hall down the street another chance. Bucky’s feeling optimistic; Steve was in good spirits this morning, chattering on about how he’s gonna get his portfolio in shape, maybe get hired to work in the funny pages. He was going to look through some old newspapers he’d found at the church white elephant last week, see if he could get some inspiration. Bucky’s hoping he’ll be inspired to act like a normal fella for once and get some socializing in tonight that doesn’t end in a swift punch to the jaw. 

So Bucky’s whistling as he hoofs it up the stairs to their sixth-floor apartment, calling out for Steve even before he’s opened the door. If he makes his case for a night out early and often, maybe he’ll wear Steve down.

But Steve doesn’t answer. Bucky steps into the apartment and Steve’s lying on the floor, breathing hard, his skinny face drawn and pale.

“Shit,” Bucky swears. He kneels next to Steve, letting the door slam shut behind him. “What happened? Did you fall?”

“I didn’t— _fall_ ,” Steve pants, clutching a hand to his chest. “I’m fine. Just—need a—minute.”

Bucky would laugh at the absurdity of this assertion if it didn’t make him so mad. “Bullshit,” he says. “What happened? Asthma attack?”

“No,” Steve says, glaring at Bucky and pushing himself up to a sitting position. “Just give me”—he winces—“give me _space_. It’s fine.”

Bucky knows what Steve’s anger means: it means this is Steve’s fault.

“What did you do?” he asks.

“I was exercising,” Steve says defiantly, between labored breaths—Bucky’s heard that stubborn note in Steve’s voice a million times before, pushing through threads of pain and the thinness that comes after an asthma attack or a knee to the gut. “A couple sets of push-ups. Some sit-ups, stretches. That’s all.”

Bucky swears. “Steve, for Chrissakes—”

“Lord’s name,” Steve spits back, “and I’m not made of glass.”

Bucky might contest that; Steve’s skin is nearly translucent at times like this, his blue veins showing at his temples and in his wrists, and Bucky knows just how easily Steve’s thin bones snap. But the only things Steve hates more than bullies are the limits of his own body.

“Okay, okay, pal,” Bucky says, taking a more conciliatory tone. “No one’s saying you are. Push-ups set off your asthma?”

After a minute, Steve nods.

Bucky tries not to growl. For a moment, the room is full only of the sounds of Steve’s struggling breaths, getting gradually more even, thank god, as they sit in silence.

“Why were you doin’ push-ups anyway?” Bucky asks. “This about the war again?”

Steve’s been talking about enlisting, but Bucky knows, they both know, that ain’t ever gonna happen.

A faint flush of color fans out over Steve’s cheeks, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Steve looks away, his mouth growing small and tight. Finally, he nudges a newspaper closer to Bucky, still not meeting his eyes.

Puzzled, Bucky lifts it up. There are newspapers all over the floor, most of them covered in cartoons; Steve’s been doing his research. But this one’s just text: an editorial, by the looks of it. The headline reads:

_“America’s Men Shockingly Unfit for Duty.”_

Bucky scans the article. As he reads, his heart starts to sink; he glances over at Steve, but his friend won’t look at him, staring determinedly at the floor.

 _“American men,”_ the article proclaims, _“are appallingly weak. Too many are turned back from recruitment offices: they are too soft, too undisciplined. They have not cultivated the level of health and fitness required for combat. America’s boys and America’s men are not engaging in activities that will prepare them to fight—contact sports, running and marching, and endurance training.”_

“Gosh,” Bucky says, attempting a joke, “Guess they’ve never been to a bar fight in Brooklyn. Contact, endurance, then, if it’s us, running—the whole package.”

But Steve merely twists his mouth up and digs his nails into his knees. Bucky reads on.

_“Without physical fitness, our boys and men will never be combat ready; and in this time of war, to sit at home, too weak to fight, is tantamount to aiding our enemies. Men who cannot fight are a drain on the nation’s resources. They might as well be delivering the food and fuel they consume straight into the hands of the Reich.”_

Bucky shoots a sharp look at Steve, alarm pulsing through him. He skims the rest of the article—he can’t bring himself to finish. He stops when he reads:

_“True physical fitness means freedom from disease and from defects—a state which may be reached through willpower, training, and self-discipline. Those who complain that they are weak, that they are incapable of acts of strength, are sick, but not in the body: they are psychologically deficient, lacking in the spirit and courage that in the true American man can overcome all. They inspire, at best, pity, a queasy sort of pity that soon sours and turns to contempt. They make those around them weaker simply by their presence, whereas a fit man—strong of blood and body, with an energy and vitality that radiates from broad shoulders, sturdy arms, and a proud and upright posture—inspires in others strength and courage. Truly, it would be better for themselves and those who know them if such weak-willed men were dead, rather than draining American resources and spirits in this time of war.”_

“What the fuck, Steve,” Bucky says, crushing the newspaper in his fist with slow fury. His heart is thudding loudly, deliberately, his pulse beating in his ears. “What the fuck were you thinking, paying attention to this garbage?”

Steve glances at him, finally, a look of dull misery in his eyes.

“You ain’t _sick_ , Steve.”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says quietly, “I am.”

For a second Bucky wants to fight back, but he realizes: that’s the first time Steve’s ever said that. Ever admitted it. And it’s true. Steve’s ill, all the time, with frequent colds, flu, worse, pneumonia—and his asthma, always—

“You’re not useless,” Bucky says instead. “You’re not— _deficient_ , Jesus, Steve—”

“Lord’s name,” Steve says again, automatically. He balls his fist up and pushes it into the sofa, but not like he’s fighting; like he’s twisting himself up smaller and smaller, like he wants to sink into the furniture. Bucky gets so mad at Steve’s stubbornness but this, the unhappy curve of Steve’s mouth and the edge of sardonic self-directed loathing in his voice, is so much worse.

“Maybe I am,” Steve says abruptly. “I can’t fight. And I’m not—” He gestures at the paper. “I’m not what they want, Buck, I’ll never be that. Not like y—” He looks swiftly up at Bucky and then stops himself, and Bucky—Bucky’s breath freezes in his chest.

“Steve,” he says slowly, “I ain’t…”

“You could—” Steve says rapidly, then stops.

“Steve,” Bucky says again.

There’s a silence.

“If you wanted—” the flush is creeping up Steve’s neck, “look, if you—I guess you probably only do it when, when, um, there aren’t girls around—or—because I—for me, I mean, because no one else will—but—”

Bucky has slipped his hand down Steve’s pants four times, three when Bucky was on his way to drunk, once when he was pretending to be. They’ve rubbed up against each other twice, both times after midnight, after failed double dates. They’ve never talked about it.

“But if it _is_ a fella you want,” Steve says, eyes focused on some distant threadbare patch of carpet, “you could have anyone.”

Something twists, hard and sharp, in Bucky’s gut. Bucky has wanted Steve, more than anything in the world, since he looked over at him on the beach at Coney Island when they were both thirteen and Bucky saw Steve’s knobby collarbones disappearing into the scooped neck of his too-big swimsuit and had to turn over on his belly as fast as he could. Bucky throws Steve and himself at every girl he can because he wants Steve to be happy and he knows he’s not the way to that, not even if Steve wanted him for more than a quick way to get off. 

“I’d understand,” Steve says, breathing more rapidly, “I would. If you wanted a—a healthy, a manly—if you wanted—broad shoulders and strong arms, because I—that’s what I’d—what I—”

He’s looking at Bucky, at Bucky’s shoulders, Bucky’s arms. Bucky feels dizzy under his gaze, under the shock of what Steve is suggesting, _is_ he suggesting…?

“I don’t wanna make you miserable,” Steve says, gaze landing on Bucky as hard and determined and dead as stone. “I don’t want you to be stuck with me.”

Bucky’s arm shoots out and he grabs Steve, too hard. Steve looks down and flinches: at his thin bony wrist disappearing into the circle of Bucky’s big firm hand. Like a twig that could snap under the least pressure—a shudder pushes up Bucky’s spine.

“Steve, I have to tell you something,” Bucky says, the words spilling out of his mouth despite himself. “I swore I would never tell you this. I hate myself for it, I—I do, but—”

Steve looks poised to be crushed, fear and disappointment swimming in his eyes.

“I hate myself,” Bucky says again, “because I never want you to be hurt, or sick,” he breathes, “but every rib I can count when you walk to the shower, every strain of your muscles trying to open a jar, every—every sight of your thin, your thin pale chest,” Bucky swallows. “I want. I want to—touch—”

Steve is staring at him, wide-eyed.

“To—put my—to bite, to, to lick—”

And Bucky raises Steve’s too-thin wrist to his mouth and opens his lips, pressing his tongue to the vivid blue veins.

Steve lets out a noise, somewhere between a yelp and a gasp and a moan.

“It ain’t in spite of your body that I’ve been carrying a torch for you since we were kids, Steve, is what I’m saying.” Bucky moves a trembling hand to Steve’s neck, clasps it gently around his skinny throat and runs it down to rest on Steve’s jutting collarbones. Steve’s breathing hard again, still staring at Bucky.

“But,” he says, “but I’m…”

“Weak?” Bucky asks, voice quiet, rough, and he pushes Steve deliberately back against the couch.

Steve inhales sharply.

“Sensitive?” Bucky says, digging his fingers into Steve’s shoulders. “Delicate?” Bucky takes Steve’s earlobe between his teeth and pulls. “Fragile?” He bends back Steve’s head and sucks a red mark onto his pale skin.

“Buck,” Steve breathes, still sounding like he wants to protest.

“Small?” Bucky presses, his heart racing wildly, _Christ_ , “is that it? Scrawny? Weedy? _Little_?”

Bucky slides his hand down the front of Steve’s trousers and into his underwear and holds him firm between his fingers: “Your little dick fits right in the palm of my hand, Steve. And if you think that’s a problem…”

He twists, and Steve comes: hard, hot, all over Bucky’s fingers, all over the inside of his pants. “B-Bucky,” he stutters, blood rushing up to his face, “I, shoot, I’m sorry, I—” 

Bucky stops his mouth with a kiss, wet, messy; the blood is roaring in his ears. “You’re a scrappy little shit who goes off like a rocket,” Bucky murmurs unsteadily. “Fuck, Steve, why do you think I’ve been followin’ you around all these years?”


End file.
